Call of the Storm
The nebulous sky with ebon clouds
Is an omen of things to be.
The plaintive call of the turtle dove
Can be heard from the old pine tree.
The quiescent well covered with boards
Forms a stage where little lams play,
While gregarious mothers stand at the shed
Awaiting their roughage of hay.
The thunder rolls the lightening flashes,
It releases a torrent of rain,
Down with a truculent sweeping wind
It beats on our window pane.
The horrendous sound of the violent gust
Engulfs us with petrified fear,
The trees sway low in anguish
As the darken clouds float near.
It engraves repentance on our soul,
Forgiveness in our heart,
When we are caught amid a storm,
And play fate's unknown part.